“Double happiness or Double life?” Canadian cinema’s reflection of Identity-Politics

Canadian cinema’s canon does not give an equal space and opportunity for marginalized voices. Self-representational films such as Double Happiness (Mina Shum, 1994) construct and contest racial stereotypes of the diapora of Asian communities in North America. This essay will examine the reflection of identity-politics in Asian Canadian cinema, with a textual analysis of Double Happiness at the forefront of my argument. Cultural assimilation for ‘hyphenated’ Canadians in the contemporary will be considered as a contextualization of the film. Shum’s contemporary cinematic techniques will be examined to confirm Christine Ramsay’s centre/margin discourse as the most appropriate academic reading of Canada’s national cinema. Adopting Eva Rueschmann’s reading of Double Happiness, this essay will target the film’s representation of marginality through a racial and gendered discourse. Race will be considered in terms of the film’s representation of the Li family and the struggles of intergenerational cultural assimilation, as well as bigotry against the protagonist, Jade Li. Gender will be examined in terms of Asian women stereotypes and their sexuality, with a focus on Shum’s stylized aesthetics to create a female perspective and authorship. Tracing Shum’s representation of this specific Chinese-Canadian family in Vancouver will help conceptualize Canadian minoritarian film.

Firstly, it is important to note Mina Shum’s position in contemporary Canadian cinema. David Spaner comments that Shum’s debut film Double Happiness made an “invaluable contribution to more than Vancouver filmmaking. Chinese immigrants have been a huge part of the B.C. fabric…” This huge space for Asian Canadians in the social fabric of British Columbia is exemplary of the possible consumptive demographic for films such as Double Happiness. Elaine Chang deconstructs the notion of being a ‘hyphenated’ Canadian as “the hyphen still marks a contentious spot on our cultural-political maps; it serves to punctuate an otherwise awkwardly or deceptively empty space.” It is clear from the analysis of the hyphen in grammatical terms that cultural hybridism is a sensitive yet integral part of Canadian racial discrimination. Socio-cultural identification and classification is a complex issue, especially in such a multicultural country as Canada.

Double Happiness deals with these complexities in numerous ways. Initially, the title Double Happiness is indicative of the film’s multi-faceted nature. Eleanor Ty comments that the title ostensibly “refers to the Chinese wish for twice-blessed good fortune.” Certainly, it is a pun and reflects stereotypes of Chinese beliefs. Yet, I think the intention behind the title is in reference to the protagonist, Jade Li. The film is told from solely her perspective and follows her two pursuits of finding happiness, one her family wants and one she wants. Both interpretations of the title’s meaning set up the film as ethnographical as well as showing awareness of racial stereotyping.

The Li family is established as specifically Chinese in the opening sequence. Shum’s utility of the “cinematic gaze, narrative voice, subjectivity and racial stereotypes” in the opening sequence pinpoint the film as self-reflexive and satirical. The opening shot is provoking; Jade talks directly to the camera.  Jade’s opening monologue compares her Chinese-Canadian family with The Brady Bunch. Chris Gittings summarizes that Jade asks the “viewer to see past racial and cultural difference to apprehend a very human story of family conflict.” As an audience member, I found this comparison initially humorous as comparing a typical white American nuclear family such as The Brady Bunch with a Chinese immigrant family in Canada is absurd. However, in hindsight, why cannot these two fictional families be compared? Shum uses humor to highlight how popular culture marginalizes certain ethnic communities and ultimately stimulates institutionalized racism (the institution being contemporary mass media).

Through the genres of comedy and romance, Shum “reveals to the extent which identity is constantly being performed.” This notion of performativity is used in the representation of Orientalism, a Westernized racial stereotype. A prime example of distinguishing cultural identity through performance is when the Li family greets an old family friend, Ah Hong, at the airport. Jade and her sister recite a Chinese specific greeting for Ah Hong, whereas, in return, Ah Hong greets the family speaking English and with acquired Western mannerisms. These opposing performances of Chinese and North American mannerisms illustrate identity-politics in Canada as backward. Notably, both Ah Hong and Jade’s family are trying to adopt culturally specific mannerisms out of mutual respect. Nevertheless, their acting is exaggerated to clearly distinguish both national identities. This moment is significant as it presents the intersections of culture, tradition, nation and intergeneration on a familial level.

However, it is Jade’s aspirations of becoming an actress which extends this notion of performativity in the film. There are two scenes which personify Jade’s conflicting construction of a new kind of national identity. Both audition scenes are important as they are on different ends of the ethnographical spectrum. During Jade’s first audition for a small role as a waitress, she is asked to create a “fabricated Chinese accent.” This is another example of Orientalist fantasy from a Westernized perspective. Jade’s second audition is for a lead role in a film. Because of Jade’s ethnicity and appearance, the director, played by Mina Shum herself, assumes that Jade speaks fluent Cantonese, even though she was raised in Canada. Both these sequences are representative of an assumed Chinese identity from two different perspectives, an English-Canadian perspective and a Chinese perspective. Mike Gasher comments that in these instances Jade is either “too Chinese or not Chinese enough”, resulting in Jade’s inability to appropriate to either national identity. This identity crisis limits Jade’s career opportunities and success in the film industry. The fact that Shum plays the director in this scene is indicative of her accomplished aesthetic style. It confirms Shum’s efforts to present Canadian identity-politics as multifaceted and complex.

Gittings comments that Shum included these conflicting scenes to “represent the film industry as constraining Chinese to perform white essentialist versions of Chinese difference.” It is clear that the racial stereotype Orientalism is exacerbated in the film through performance, both in the family plot-line and in Jade’s career prospects. Shum overtly presents the audience with racial stereotyping to shed light on everyday racism and victimization. Kass Banning comments “Double Happiness adopts exaggeration further as its strategy, pushing the limits of Chinese specificity.” The over-sensitivity to racial stereotyping and performance arguably takes away from the film’s serious discussion of identity-politics in Canada. Nevertheless, it is integral to the film’s representation of otherness as it renders empathy to marginalized groups in Canada. Although the film examines bigotry on a personal level, the film is by no means microcosmic for a larger Chinese-Canadian population. In an interview with Sheila Benson, Shum comments “I’m not representing Chinese culture. I’m representing this one family.” The Chinese specific markers perpetuated in Double Happiness are not representative of a larger diasporic community rather self-a humanized perspective on racial discrimination and cultural integration.

Through a gendered lens, it is clear that Jade’s feminine identity is also uncertain. Asian female sexuality is dealt with explicitly in the film. Jade’s sexuality is repressed and dictated by her parents.  She is trapped between the traditionalist values of her family and the modern dominant culture. Jade’s interactions with her love interest, Mark, define Shum as aesthetically innovative. The use of costume, non-diegetic sound and lighting all characterise Jade as a sexualized young woman. The first night Jade and Mark meet and go back to his apartment, Jade’s red dress indicates a sexual agency and defiance against stereotypes such as the servility of Asian women. The loud dramatic non-diegetic music frames the couple’s movements as highly stylized and theatrical. The use of Jade and Mark’s silhouettes against a stark red background establishes Shum’s take on appropriated sexuality as overstressed in dominant culture. Another technique Shum uses to emphasize Jade’s otherness is slow motion. Banning comments that “extended moments, such as when the family group watches and waves to Jade as she embarks on a date, emphasize the situation’s faux superficiality.” This superficiality is used to accentuate the family’s rigid cultural specificity. The slow motion draws out Jade’s movements getting into the Chinese man’s expensive car. It ridicules Hollywood romance films which acknowledge heteronormativity as the end all.

A contributing factor to the film’s success is its female authorship and self-reflexivity. In Sheila Benson’s article on the film’s release and praise at the Toronto Film Festival, it is clear Shum has personal resonance with Double Happiness. Benson comments “Ms. Shum takes particular pride in the fact that the characters in Double Happiness are middle-class.” The film’s praise and attention is partially due to Shum’s ironic handling of racial and gendered marginality. Eleanor Ty recognizes Jade as “doubly, triply marginalized, as Asian female, and Canadian in a predominantly americanized culture in North America.” Jade’s identity is defined through race and gender and they deeply entwined with one another.

However, the film’s ending is problematic. Jade decides to move out in the pursuit of her own happiness by prioritizing her feminine identity over her cultural and national heritage. It is as if Jade cannot be happy sexually without distancing herself from her Chinese specificity and family. The ending is double-edged as it appropriates Jade into Canadian society but at an ancestral and cultural price. This could be exemplary of Gittings’ idea of a “negotiation of whiteness” and in this case, Jade negotiates and bargains her cultural roots for a westernized feminine identity. This disengagement of cultural heritage demonstrates the contradictions of multiculturalism in Canada. Gittings argues that Double Happiness was “produced with some government assistance agency that facilitates multicultural policy.”If this film was funded in the agreement of promoting multiculturalism in Canada then it falls short. Again, it is not microcosmic in any way yet appropriates cultural assimilation as a matter of ancestral disengagement. The film’s ending is arguably ambiguous on its stance of multiculturalism in Canada as it is self-referential and subjective cinema.  In spite of the ending’s ambiguity, it clarifies that marginality, on all levels, is a complex yet abundant issue in Canada.

Arguably, Asian Canadian film is oppositional. Gittings’ analysis of Moving the Mountain (William Ging Wee Dere and Malcom Guy, 1993) confirms that Canadian films about Chinese immigration and cultural assimilation are oppositional to Canadian racist legislation, such as the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1923. The harsh treatment of Chinese immigrants in Canada is dealt with explicitly in Moving in Mountain through personal interviews, whereas, Double Happiness gives a more contemporary and intergenerational perspective on Chinese discrimination. Grouping these two films together allows us to see that although with multiculturalism being integral to Canada’s legislation in the contemporary, diasporic communities still suffer some degree of bigotry.

It is also important to note that these two films are made in the early 1990s which is perhaps a turning point for Canadian minoritarian films. Other minoritarian films borne out of the 1990s include Sam and Me (Deepa Mehta, 1990), Masala (Srivina Krishna, 1992) and Rude (Clement Virgo, 1995).  By seeing this influx of films by hyphenated Canadians or First Nation peoples collectively, one can understand Gittings notion of “ghettoizing filmmakers”. Considering these films collectively runs the risk of marginalizing hyphenated Canadian and First Nation directors further yet it is interesting to see that these films are all produced from 1990-1995. Perhaps this oppositional cinema could be linked to the national recession of the 1990s? Either way, conceptualizing Canadian minoritarian films is a complex process grouping diversity is illogical.

It is clear then Christine Ramsay’s centre/margin discourse of Canadian cinema should be implemented when considering films produced by marginalized voices. Ramsay’s centre/margin discourse is progressive and contemporary thus in alignment with Double Happiness and the other mentions above. It would be paradoxical to these films through the Canadian cinema rubric constituted by scholars such as Peter Haarcourt and Robert Fothergill. Canadian cinema should be constituted by difference, not by similarity. This essay has only examined marginality through an ethnic and gendered lens; needless to say there are numerous other forms of marginality. Canadian cinema should adopt a Benedict Anderson perspective of distinguishing a national identity (and subsequently a national culture). Canada is a plethora of “imagined communities” that should be constituted by cultural diversity.

Bibliography

Banning Kass. “Playing the Light: Canadianizing Race and Nation”, in

Armatage, Kay, Banning, Kass, Longfellow, Brenda & Marchessault, Janine (eds.) Gendering the nation: Canadian’s women cinema, University of Toronto Press, 1999.

Benson, Shelia. “Chinese but Not Chinese, And Revealing the Difference” New York Times, 23^rd July 1995.Proquest Historical Newspapers, Access Date: 30^th October 2009.

Chang, Elaine (ed.) Reel Asian: Asian Canada On screen, Library and Archives Canada Cataloging in Publication, 2007.

Gasher, Mike. The Hollywood North: The Feature Film Industry in British Columbia, UBC Press, 2002.

Gittings, Christopher. “Multicultural Fields of Vision.” Canadian National Cinema, London: Routlege, 2002.

Ramsay, Christine. “Canadian Narrative Cinema from the Margins: ‘The Nation’ and Masculinity in Goin’ Down the Road.” Canadian Journal of Film Studies 2.2-3, 1993.

Rueschmann, Eva (ed.) “Mediating Worlds/Migrating Identities: Representing Home, Diaspora and Identity in Recent Asian American and Asian Canadian Women’s Films” in Moving Pictures, Migrating Identities. 2003, University Press of Mississippi.

Ty, Eleanor. The Politics of the Visible in Asian North American Narratives: University of Toronto Press, 2004

Spaner, David. Dreaming in the Rain: How Vancouver Became Hollywood North by Northwest, Arsenal Pulp Press, 2003

“Under the Mexican Sky” – Gabriel Figueroa and Topographies of Cultural Modernity

“Like many great artists of his generation, Mexican cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa’s life and vision shaped and was shaped by the historical events that propelled the Mexican nation into modernity after the Revolution of 1910.”[1]

Agreeing with Elena Feder, Gabriel Figueroa was an important artist and personality during the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. His cinematography and collaboration with some of Mexico’s best directors contributed to a cultural shift towards modernization and urbanization. This essay looks at three Gabriel Figueroa films and how his techniques construct topographies of cultural modernity in Mexico. It will examine the cultural anxieties of modernity and consider whether these anxieties are perpetuated through Figueroa’s cinematography. The basis of my argument will be rooted in a textual and stylistic analysis of Over there on the Big Ranch (Fernando de Fuentes, 1936), La Perla (Emilio Fernandez, 1947) and The Fugitive (John Ford, 1946). Figueroa’s cinematographic techniques will be examined to distinguish any stylistic similarities over the three films. A textual analysis of Figueroa’s cinematography of the opening sequences of the three films will allow me to consider Figueroa’s fundamental aesthetical style. Figueroa’s innovative camerawork needs to be deconstructed and analyzed by specific aesthetical techniques. Figueroa’s use of deep focus, low angle shots and high angle shots, compositional styles and lighting will be analyzed across the three films.

The three films have been chosen specifically as they encompass a wide time scale in which Figueroa worked within, as well as considering the importance of transnational cinema.  The three films consider Figueroa’s cinematographic success from 1936 to 1947, often considered his early part of his career. Nevertheless, this decade gives a broader social and political framework of Mexico to explore, especially with governmental influence in cinema in the late 1930s. The nationalist project of the 1930s will be considered, as well as Figueroa’s heavy influence of nationalist visual art of the 1940s. This essay will also consider whether Figueroa’s cinematic background and experience (especially the time spent in Hollywood) is visualized and prominent in his modes of cinematography in the three films. 

Cultural modernity is a complex concept.  It is difficult to define cultural modernity quintessentially as a number of issues need to be considered. The concept cultivates a number of socio-cultural tensions such as modernity vs. traditionalism, rural vs. urban lifestyle and location. The adaptation to changes in family dynamics, gender roles and the exposure to industrialism and urbanized spaces are all integral to topographies of cultural modernity. Vanessa Knights summarizes that from the late 1930s Mexico was a “transitional period characterized by rapid urbanization, industrialization, incorporation into the international economy and the institutionalization of the revolution.”[2]Culture then, including cinema, mass mediums such as newspapers, radio and later television and other visual arts had to follow suit by perpetuating a socially accepted modernity and way of living.  Cultural modernity in cinema includes a recuperation of pre-revolutionary traditions, characters and ideologies, the use of folkloric music to reinforce a humanized and community social dynamic. Cinema of the late 1930s was utilized as a cultural tool to constitute an emblematic and specifically Mexican identity, produce films which were exportable internationally, as well as presenting societal embracement and societal anxiety of modernity. It is clear cultural modernity in Mexican cinema was integral to the nationalist campaign, campańa nacionalista, as its representations of Mexican culture and landscape supported the notion of “Mexicanidad”. Joanne Hershfield identifies this transitional period for Mexican culture as a “negotiation of nationalism.”[3]

Before deconstructing the attributes of Figueroa’s cinematography, it is important to consider the opening images of the three films. Firstly, Over there on the Big Ranch fades in from black and we see an archway titled Rancho Grande. The archway is surrounded by greenery. It then cuts to two men herding running cows, with a backdrop of the mountainous countryside. Secondly, La Perla fades in to a beach sunset, with the sky dominating the screen. It then cuts to a curvilinear perspective of the cliffs and the beach with a backdrop of rural mountains. Thirdly, The Fugitive fades in to a deserted pebbly path in the midst of a green and mountainous landscape. It is clear that Figueroa embraces the Mexican landscape in his films as a way to celebrate the nation’s heritage and identity. The on-location shooting creates a nationally specific quality to his films, yet the narratives are often allegorical with universal themes. Carlos Monsivais argues that “Figueroa’s cinematography possesses a vehement lyricism, romantic majesty and epic wisdom.”[4]The Mexican setting is romanticized and becomes a character of its own in Figueroa’s films. Figueroa’s eye for Mexican landscape is important when considering topographies of cultural modernity as rejuvenating the way the nation sees their land arguably adds to a national congruity. Landscape and location is fundamentally a nationalist entity, something agreeable to its entire people. Characterizing Mexico’s beautiful and diverse landscape is a cinematic trait that is at the heart of Figueroa’s work and is apparent across all three films.

Considering Mexican cinema on a transnational level is arguably a culturally modernist way of thinking. Referring back to Vanessa Knights comment on Mexico “incorporating into the international economy”, it is important to consider Mexican cinema within a globalized economy. The rapid growth of globalization at the turn of the 20^th century meant that industry and culture were directed at a mainstream and globalized economy. Transnational industry and globalization are inextricably linked to modernization and urbanization. With progressive socio-economical policies during Lazaro Cardenas presidency from 1934 – 1940, Mexican cinema was being imagined as to both consolidate a specifically Mexican identity yet retain a universal appeal through narrative and genre. It would be inconclusive if one did not consider Gabriel Figueroa’s position in the film industry through a transnational lens. Ceri Higgins comments that “the industry that Figueroa entered was, from the outset, a transnational concern.”[5]This transnational concern is intertwined with the intersections of culture, modernity and cosmopolitanism. Aureilo de los Reyes idea of ‘Cosmopolitan nationalism’ is significant when considering the work of Gabriel Figueroa.

The Mexican government’s role in cinema was becoming more concrete during the 1930s. Tom Dey claims that it was the government-funded CLASA that sent Figueroa to Hollywood in 1935[6]. Gabriel Figueroa’s professional experience spent in the U.S., more specifically his apprenticeship with Greg Toland, was momentous in terms of formulating his aesthetical signature style. Figueroa’s professional networking with cinematographers Alex and Phillips and Greg Toland were inspiring. Greg Toland was an experimental cinematographer who reveled in freedom from the director to create innovative techniques. Furthermore, Figueroa’s artistic influences of Mexican muralists, graphic arts and photography were quintessential elements of his cinematographic style. The next section will examine Figueroa’s artistic influences and Greg Toland’s (and subsequently Figueroa’s) cinematographic visions through the use of compositional style, deep focus, low angle shots, high angle shots.

Composition in cinema is essentially the arrangement of visual aesthetics within the frame. An important component of composition is perspective. Linear perspective is the most common perspective cinematographers work within as it creates depth of field and is an honest representation of space and location. However, Gerardo Murillo, also known as Dr. Atl, was an innovative artist who experimented with changing perspectives. Dr. Atl was an important artistic figure in Figueroa’s career and inspired him to adopt curvilinear perspective in cinema. Curvilinear perspective in cinema was a “representational scheme that stressed spherical shapes in nature.”[7]Dr. Atl’s passion for vast landscapes can be seen in his paintings, such as “Nubes Sobre el Valle” 1932 and is seen as a key component in Figueroa’s aesthetical style. Figueroa became known for his constant use of the Mexican sky and clouds as they were referred to as ‘Figueroa’s skies’. Charles Ramirez Berg comments that low angle shots “shifted the balance of the composition skyward.”[8] The sky often dominated the frame. The use of brewing clouds and the overpowering sky can be seen in the final sequences of the La Perla. Quino and Juana have escaped the chase in the swampy jungle terrain. Figueroa uses numerous extreme long shots to capture the couple’s isolation, with the sky dominating half of the frame. It is as if the sky cuts the frame in half and positions the couple’s struggles in the lower half and the forefront of the frame.

Carlos Monsivias quotes Gabriel Figueroa himself, “I incorporated Mexican landscape in balanced forms, chiaroscuros, half-toned skies, the kind of immense clouds we all fear…”[9]The appearance of brewing clouds were a regular occurrence in Figueroa’s cinematography to create an intricate relationship between the Mexican landscape and its people. Charles Ramirez Berg continues, “The sky and the clouds that hovered… were as extraordinary a feature as the national landscape as the Mexican people themselves.”[10]It is clear that ‘Figueroa’s skies’ were significant in developing and furthering the importance of cinematography. His incorporation and adaptation of Dr. Atl’s curvilinear perspective can be seen as contributing to the modernist way in which filmmakers visually constructed the diegetic world through multiple perspectives. 

Figueroa uses curvilinear perspective in different ways aside from his dominant image of the sky. The cinematography in The Fugitive incorporates curvilinear perspective as an innovative way to manipulate the audience’s eyesight. The opening of The Fugitive begins with the fugitive, played by Henry Fonda, riding a mule on a pebbly path in the midst of a mountainous countryside. The pebbly path is curved from the top left of the screen to the bottom left of the screen. There is another shot in the opening sequence where Figueroa the small community gathers around the holy water basin in the abandoned church. The basin cuts into the crowd and creates a curved shape. These instances of curvilinear perspective are perhaps more subtle than ‘Figueroa’s skies’, nevertheless reiterate a sense of modernism by incorporating Dr. Atl’s artwork. It could be seen as a cinematographic way to manipulate the audience’s eye, as well as to further the narrative of anticlericalism.

Returning back to Joanne Hersfield’s “negotiation of nationalism”, this notion is discussed in Figueroa’s first film as being the director of cinematography. Both topographies of traditionalism and modernity are presented. Over there on the Big Ranch is the most popular comedia ranchera film of the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. It recuperates the idea of the charreria through images of such as the hacienda, the charro and the china pablano. It is important to analyze the use of deep focus camerawork in Over there in the Big Ranch and its cinematographic significance in perpetuating an idea of cultural modernity. Greg Toland was an important influence in terms of cinematographic uses of deep focus. Deep focus requires elements at very different depths to both be in focus. The use of deep focus is a sincere representation of space and location. It is also a cinematic technique which is similar to that of photography, something which Figueroa pursued before entering the film industry. Charles Raimerz Berg comments that a number of Emilio Fernandez-Gabriel Figueroa films (La Perla being an example of this) echoed Greg Toland’s “exceptional deep focus and the dramatic lighting that modeled figures against dark backgrounds…”[11]Over there on the Big Ranch is a personal and humanized story, with considerable dialogue. Figueroa uses deep focus numerous times as another way to capture character reactions and relations. Shot/reverse shots are prominent in his style, yet his use of deep focus is seen as original.

A prime example of Figueroa’s deep focus style in Over there on the Big Ranch is when Florentino is playing the guitar and Cruz sings while doing the housework. Figueroa captures Cruz singing through a long shot, from an outside perspective. Filming her through the barred window frames her within her domestic confinements as well as allowing space for Martin to enter the frame. Martin enters the shot from the left and starts to sing along with Cruz. Both Martin and Cruz are in focus to capture their interactions between one another. This scene could be read in a number of ways. On a diegetic level, it furthers the narrative as the audience is aware of Martin’s affection for Cruz.  However, the inclusion of the barred window compared with the outside street possibly creates resentment toward confinement and conformity. This confinement and conformity could arguably be a cultural signifier of modernization and urbanization.

This sequence, along with others in the film reiterates gender roles as traditionalist and conservative. The expressionistic use of costumes can be referenced back to the 19^th century painting in Mexico called costumbrismo. Traditionalist gender roles are reinforced through the use of costume as well as contributing to the projection of a national sentiment in Mexican films. Eric Segre considers Over there on the Big Ranch as nostalgic and revisionist[12]and Figueroa’s use of deep focus is a reflection of this. To an extent, the film is a nostalgic entity, and presenting cultural patriarchy and stark gender roles both integrates past and present ideologies, as well as posing an oppositional stance on modernization and urbanization. Notably, part of onscreen cultural modernity in Mexican cinema of the 1930s was anxiety and resistance. Over there on the Big Ranch is an exemplary film when considering representations of both modernity and traditions. It includes both as a way to rejuvenate a national identity of Mexico.

Carlos Monsivais argues that cinematography was not a prominent feature in cinema of the 1930s, “Cinematography attracted little attention with the beginning of sound movies. It was only seen as a technical medium, imperative through neutral; it was warranted no cultural assessment.”[13]From this, it is clear that Figueroa’s use of cinematography in La Perla is much more established. Figueroa’s adoption of deep focus in La Perla is arguably more competent and part of his signature style. Despite aesthetically pleasing and beautiful, the opening shots of La Perla are classic examples of Figueroa’s competent use of deep focus. The opening sequence consists of shots of crashing waves interspersed with shots of the back of cloaked figures standing on the beach. It begins with a two long-shot of two cloaked figures, who appear to be women. After cutting to the crashing waves, it returns back to a three long-shot with the same camera positioning as before. The third time it returns back to the beach, the angle switches to introduce one cloaked figure on the right hand-side and in the forefront, the three cloaked women on a diagonal line but still in focus on the left hand-side. The shot also has the crashing waves in the background. Each time it cuts back to the beach, more cloaked figures in white are introduced.

The sequence is exemplary of Figueroa’s masterful cinematographic skills. The use of diagonal lines and angles along with the deep focus highlight the relationship between the land and its people. I found the close-ups of the waves crashing onto the sand, then retracting back could be a visual motif for the dangerous unknown continuously creeping up on an indigenous community. Ceri Higgins notes Figueroa’s intentions for deep focus, “Figueroa’s – aim in pursuit of depth of field was an attempt to better express the internal integrity of a film’s narrative themes.”[14]Depth of field and deep focus were one of Figueroa’s most common cinematographic techniques. It could be said in the opening sequence of La Perla Figueroa is trying to stress the complex relationship between the indigenous people of Mexico and their land. Elena Feder’s interview with Figueroa reveals that both Fernandez and Figueroa were supporters of indigenous peoples, “Theirs has been an important struggle for me, and their fair portrayal a major focus of the vast majority of my films.”[15]Another Fernandez-Figueroa film which presents indigenous people positively is Maria Candelaria (Emilio Fernandez, 1943). Both these films validate the indigenous legacy in the face of entrenched negativity toward nativism. These projections, composed by Figueroa’s beautiful cinematography, were an ideologically and culturally modernist way of thinking. It is clear that deep focus was a significant technique for Figueroa, especially in his films with Emilio Fernandez. Figueroa uses deep focus in a number of his films, yet to different degrees.

Low angle shots are a defining characteristic for Gabriel Figueroa’s cinematography. A prime example of Figueroa’s low angle camera positioning is in La Perla. Quino stands up on the boat, after having found the pearl from the ocean; he holds it up and cackles. Although the scene is amplified for allegorical effect, the use of the low angle camera positioning presents Quino as powerful and transcendent. Quino towers the shot and the sun reflects off his masculine body. It is a sight for masculinity and capitalist corruption. The shot includes his wife, Juana, reinforcing her low status in comparison with Quino. It is as if the pearl has elevated Quino on a social, economical and spiritual level. This specific low angle shot of Quino, played by Pedro Armendariz, contributes to the modernized image of Mexican masculinity. His physicality is also stressed in the underwater sequences when he dives for the pearl.

Another example of low angle shots to illustrate power is in The Fugitive. I found this specific sequence in the film to capture the socio-cultural tension between innocent civilians and corrupt capitalist values. This scene epitomizes the film’s resistance stance against cultural modernity as it perpetuates unjust social systems of power terrorizing small communities just trying to survive. The scene takes place in the hills where the fugitive priest, played by Henry Fonda, who has been helping the community’s rejuvenation of Christianity. Members of the small community are walking along a pebbly path. It cuts to a medium shot of children riding on a mule, a man leading the mule and a man playing the guitar. It then cuts to the police on horses, led by the Lieutenant, racing to capture the fugitive. There is one image which is most striking. It is a low angle shot of policemen on horses galloping and trampling on hundreds of sombreros. For me, this image epitomizes social fear of modernization, urbanism and capitalist corruption. Its symbolism is indicative of modernist values destroying traditionalist values and a previous way of life.

There is a similar scene in The Fugitive where the policemen are now chasing the fugitive through the corn fields. It again cuts to a low angle shot of the horses’ legs destroying the community’s agriculture. It is essentially tearing through the community’s livelihood. I found both these images a cultural signifier of social anguish toward modernism and urbanization. However, Seth Fein’s reading of The Fugitive indicates a fear of communism rather than modernism, “Ford presented a severe anti-clerical message about the danger that communism posed to peasant values, traditions and beliefs.”[16]Certainly, Ford and Figueroa depict a social fear of totalitarianism but to interpret this as a direct resistance against communism is too opinionated. I find Fein’s argument weak; grouping communism with anticlericalism fundamentally neglects their true definitions. Anticlericalism is a clear message that permeates throughout the film, mainly through the innocence of the fugitive himself, yet there is no direct reference to communism. The paramilitary depicted in The Fugitive are undoubtedly totalitarian and oppressive but Fein’s direct assumption of communism is ineffectual.

High angle shots are used in Figueroa’s films, but perhaps not to the same degree as low angle shots. High angle shots are useful to capture a collective group or community in one static frame. Figueroa uses high angle shots in Over there in the Big Ranch when Jose and Martin have a tense discussion through the use of song in the cantina. The high angle shots are positioned to capture the community witnessing their heated musical discussion, as if they are the chorus. Throughout the sequence, spectators often laugh and mock Jose and Martin. This elevated camera positioning creates a vision of national sentiment. The majority of the chorus is wearing sombreros in these high angle shots which perpetuate a specifically Latin American heritage and celebration. Figueroa’s masterful cinematography of the performance and musical sequences in Over there on the Big Ranch romanticize pre-revolutionary rural lifestyle, yet the music itself appealed to a modernized audience. The incorporation of performances by Tito Guizar, for example, was important in infusing modernized forms of expression, such as song and dance.

High angle shots are used in abundance in The Fugitive. A prime example is at the end of the film is when the fugitive is marched out into the courtyard by the police. Figueroa uses both low and high angle shots to dramatize the fugitive’s doomed fate. The low angle shots of the fugitive walking in his sandals next to the policemen’s boots again distinguish an opposition to a modernized and controlled society. However, the high angle shots of the fugitive being marched out into the courtyard arguably capture the moment in a specific Mexican location. Arguably, Figueroa was influenced by the modernist photographer, Paul Strand. Paul Strand’s use of high angle camera positioning with a backdrop of an ancient architecture in his photograph “Wall Street” (1915) is echoed in the ending sequence of The Fugitive. The shadowing pillars are important in reiterating societal fear of industrialism. Another direct reference to industrialism is after the opening sequence, the camera cuts to a close up of a noisy steam ship. In contrast with the previous sequence in the mountainous countryside, it is clear industry and urbanism are not encouraged.

Lighting and shadowing is a prominent feature in Figueroa’s films. His use of light dark shadowing is an important feature in The Fugitive especially. The opening sequence is exemplary of Figueroa’s use of shadowing to further and better meaning of the narrative. When the fugitive enters the abandoned church for the first time, the light from the outside contrasted with the dark gloomy church create a silhouette. However, the fugitive’s arms are still holding the double doors, making the silhouette appear to have wings and referencing a powerful and spiritual other. Carlos Monsivais that Figueroa’s visions were never realistic, “A triumph of allegory over realism. Even though Figueroa never idealizes, he believes in something. Reality as such doesn’t exist in the movies.”[17]The natural sunlight in La Perla could be seen as a direct reference to the pearl itself. The opening and final images of the film are of a distant horizon, with the sun setting. The sun in these images is small and central to the frame and is a visual motif for the importance of the pearl.

To conclude, Figueroa’s cinematographic contribution to cultural modernity was substantial. Certainly, Figueroa’s cinematography in La Perla and The Fugitive is more expressive and established compared with Over there on the Big Ranch.. It was important to consider Figueroa’s contribution to Mexico’s cultural modernity in both a visualized and production sense.  Ceri Higgins argues that “Toland also championed and passed onto Figueroa a reassessment of the traditional role and function of the cinematographer.”[18]This reassessment of the role of the cinematographer is seen in both La Perla and The Fugitive. I find Figueroa’s work in La Perla also contributes a ideologically modernist way of thinking. Elena Feder’s interview with Figueroa asks an important question of which Gabriel Figueroa considers his favorite pieces of work, nicely lending itself to my prominent discussion of La Perla and The Fugitive. Figueroa answers, “Cinematographically, The Fugitive is my favorite. My other favorites are La Perla and Enamoranda.”[19]Topographies of cultural modernity are visualized through romanticized images of the Mexican landscape.

 

Bibliography

Berg, Charles Ramirez. (1995) “The Cinematic Invention of Mexico: The Poetics and Politics of the Fernandez-Figueroa style”, The Mexican Cinema Project, University of Texas.

Dey, Tom. (1992) “Gabriel Figueroa: Mexico’s Master Cinematographer”, vol. 73, issue 3.

Feder, Elena. (1996) “A Reckoning: Interview with Gabriel Figueroa”, Film Quarterly, vol. 49, no. 3.

Fein, Seth. “Transcultured Anticommunism: Cold War Hollywood in Post-War Mexico”

Hershfield, Joanne, (2006) “Screening the Nation” in Vaughn, Mary Kay and Stephen E. Lewis, eds., The Eagle and the Virgin. Nation and Cultural Revolution in Mexico, 1920-1940, Durham and London: Duke University Press.

Higgins, Ceri (2008) “Transiting the National” in special issue on Gabriel Figueroa , Luna Cornea 32.

Knights, Vanessa, (2003) “Modernity, Modernization and melodrama. The bolero in Mexico in the 1930s and 1940s,” in Hart, Stephen and Richard Young eds. Contemporary Latin American Cultural Studies, London: Arsenal Publishers.

Monsivais, Carlos. (1988) “Establishing Point of View” in The Art of Gabriel Figueroa, Artes De Mexico

Segre, Eric. (2000) “Visualizing Mexico: The Interplay of Mexican Graphic Arts in the 1930s and the 1940s”, Hispanic Research Journal, vol. 1, no. 1.

 

[1]Feder, Elena. (1996) “A Reckoning: Interview with Gabriel Figueroa”, Film Quarterly, vol. 49, no. 3, pg. 2.

 

[2]Knights, Vanessa, (2003) “Modernity, Modernization and melodrama. The bolero in Mexico in the 1930s and 1940s,” in Hart, Stephen and Richard Young eds. Contemporary Latin American Cultural Studies, London: Arsenal Publishers, pg. 127.

[3]Hershfield, Joanne, (2006) “Screening the Nation” in Vaughn, Mary Kay and Stephen E. Lewis, eds., The Eagle and the Virgin. Nation and Cultural Revolution in Mexico, 1920-1940, Durham and London: Duke University Press, pg. 260.

[4]Monsivais, Carlos. (1988) “Establishing Point of View” in The Art of Gabriel Figueroa, pg. 4.

[5]Higgins, Ceri (2008) “Transiting the National” in special issue on Gabriel Figueroa , Luna Cornea 3, 2pg. 595.

[6]Dey, Tom. (1992) “Gabriel Figueroa: Mexico’s Master Cinematographer”, pg. 35.

 

[7]Berg, Charles Ramirez. (1995) “The Cinematic Invention of Mexico: The Poetics and Politics of the Fernandez-Figueroa style”, The Mexican Cinema Project, University of Texas, pg. 16.

[8]Ibid, pg. 19.

[9]Monsivais, Carlos. (1988) “Establishing Point of View” in The Art of Gabriel Figueroa, pg. 4.

[10]Berg, Charles Ramirez. (1995) “The Cinematic Invention of Mexico: The Poetics and Politics of the Fernandez-Figueroa style”, The Mexican Cinema Project, University of Texas, pg. 18.

[11]Berg, Charles Ramirez. (1995) “The Cinematic Invention of Mexico: The Poetics and Politics of the Fernandez-Figueroa style”, The Mexican Cinema Project, University of Texas, pg. 19.

[12]Segre, Eric. (2000) “Visualizing Mexico: The Interplay of Mexican Graphic Arts in the 1930s and the 1940s”, Hispanic Research Journal, vol. 1, no. 1, pg. 89.

[13]Monsivais, Carlos. (1988) “Establishing Point of View” in The Art of Gabriel Figueroa, pg. 1.

[14]Higgins, Ceri (2008) “Transiting the National” in special issue on Gabriel Figueroa , Luna Cornea 32”, pg. 597.

[15]Feder, Elena. (1996) “A Reckoning: Interview with Gabriel Figueroa”, Film Quarterly, vol. 49, no. 3, pg. 11.

[16]Fein, Seth. “Transcultured Anticommunism: Cold War Hollywood in Post-War Mexico”, pg. 85.

[17]Monsivais, Carlos. (1988) “Establishing Point of View” in The Art of Gabriel Figueroa, pg. 5.

[18]Higgins, Ceri (2008) “Transiting the National” in special issue on Gabriel Figueroa , Luna Cornea 32, pg. 597.

[19]Feder, Elena. (1996) “A Reckoning: Interview with Gabriel Figueroa”, Film Quarterly, vol. 49, no. 3, pg. 10.

“A Woman Under the Influence” – Cassavetes’ Masterpiece

Fantastic essay on the Criterion Collection by Kent Jones.

If you haven’t seen the film, it’s a must. 

http://www.criterion.com/current/posts/340-a-woman-under-the-influence-the-war-at-home

The Racial Other in Tarantino’s Jackie Brown (1997)

Nowhere is the cinematic devaluation of African Americans more evident than in images of black women. Constructed through pervasive stereotyping and on the periphery of a white ideal of female beauty, black women in cinema have been cast as the racial Other. This Otherness has been constructed through many guises in the history of American cinema, including the desexualised “mammy” and the tragic “mulatto”. Some more recently recognisable identities include the bad single mother, the oversexed jezebel, the angry sapphire and the diva. Film scholars and feminists alike have lamented this historical lineage of stereotyping and the negativity that seems to cling to representations of black women in U.S. cinema, yet there is still much to be said about black women as presented within interracial relationships. This essay argues that Jackie Brown draws attention to and amplifys the racial difference of African American protagonists, Jackie Brown. This argument is evidenced through an instance of racial displacement and an exhibition of Pam Grier’s cultural verisimilitude as the “queen of Blaxploitation”.

While the Self, the Other and Otherness may seem familiar or universal concepts, it is important to acknowledge their abundance in twentieth century discourses such as psychoanalysis, philosophy, colonialism and post-colonialism. Although many theorists have given their definitions of these terms, I employ Sander L. Gilman’s comments here as they neatly summarise the selective mechanisms at work in constructing the Other:

 

In ‘seeing’ (constructing a representational system for) the Other, we search for anatomical signs of difference such as physiognomy and skin color. The Other’s physical features, from skin color to sexual structures […] are always the antithesis of the idealised self’s (qtd. in Young 31). 

 

Two points arise here. First, by defining the Other, there is an implicit acknowledgement of the opposite i.e. the Self. Second, constructions of the Other operate, and arguably depend upon, strict, identifiable physical registers of difference. In Homi K. Bhabha’s Fanonesque essay, “The Other”, she distinguishes the concept of the racial Other as “at once an object of desire and derision, an articulation of difference contained within the fantasy of origin and identity” (19). As the analysis below reveals, this paradox manifests as fantastical and desirable in Jackie Brown. 

An examination of Jackie Brown calls for an acknowledgment that the film is an adaptation of Elmore Leonard’s novel Rum Punch (1992). Tarantino’s “fantasy casting” of African American Grier is not in keeping with the original text since the female protagonist in the novel, Jackie Bourke, is racially “unmarked, which is to say she is white, not black” (Bauer 7; Miklitsch, 299). While racial allocation is perhaps less important in novelistic characterisation, film is inherently visual. Therefore, casting black actress Grier inevitably has a simple visual impact. However, ultimately this casting choice informs many stylistic qualities in the film. As a result, Jackie Brown’s African American identity is stressed and centralised.The opening sequence will be analysed here to demonstrate this. As Figures 3.1 and 3.2 illustrate below, Tarantino pays homage to Benjamin Braddock’s (Dustin Hoffman) introduction in The Graduate (d. Mike Nichols, 1967) through the similar use of a continuous medium profile shot, capturing Jackie, just like Benjamin, on an airport moving walkway. While this opening shot exemplifies Tarantino’s playful and highly-referential filmmaking style, as well as marking the film as a character piece and notably different in pace to the frenzied violence in Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994), it nevertheless positions Jackie’s race, and in this case her gender also, as different – different from the original, white male as seen in The Graduate. 

 

Grier/Jackie’s racial difference informs Tarantino’s decision to bookend the film with Bobby Womack’s “Across 110^th Street” (1971). This reading is supported by Tarantino’s comments which provide particular insight into the importance of song choice: “I’m always trying to find the right opening credit or closing credit sequence music early on […] Once I find it, that really triggers me into the personality […] of what the piece should be” (Barnes and Heam 109). The “personality” of the film, then, is indebted to the cultural verisimilitude Grier retains onscreen as an icon (however regressive) of black femininity in the 1970s in films like Foxy Brown (d. Jack Hill, 1974) and Coffy (d. Jack Hill, 1973). Tarantino’s choice of this song, (originally written by Womack for Across 110^th Street (d. Barry Frears, 1972)), further cements the Blaxploitation connection. This song, like the one in The Graduate, provides a vehicle for expressing the thoughts and feelings of the central protagonist. Just as the lyrics of Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” (1964) denote Benjamin’s feelings of disillusionment and isolation, the lyrics of Womack’s “Across 110^th Street”, in the opening stanza below, foreshadow Jackie’s desperate situation– a situation fraught with financial struggles and moral dilemmas (qtd. in Miklitch 291): 

 

I was the third brother of five

Doing whatever I had to do to survive

I’m not saying what I did was alright

Trying to break out of the ghetto was a day to day fight

 

With racial epithets such as “brother” and “ghetto”, the lyrics inevitably introduce and contextualise Jackie pointedly within an African American culture and experience (qtd. in Miklitch 291). This type of contextualisation is also evident in the use of “Long Time Woman”, recorded by Grier for prison film The Big Doll House (d. Jack Hill, 1971). The song skilfully accompanies Jackie’s short stint in jail, shown through montage in a way that stresses her experiences as a black woman in jail. Referring to Womack’s song, Miklitch points out: “the opening notes [of Womack’s song] precede the pre-title sequence”, the significance of this being that, given the song’s overall soulful rhythm, Jackie walks into an audiovisual space already predetermined and coded as African American (291).  That is not to suggest this predetermination is negative; if anything the song bestows on Jackie a sophistication, or “coolness” – “coolness” being a recurrent character attribute in Tarantino’s body of work. Negativity and “coolness” aside, this predetermination ultimately categorises Jackie’s racial identity as fixed within the binary confines of race.

A final note should be made about the duration of the opening shot. Lasting the entire credit sequence, it invites a “closer look” at the small, visual details of Jackie’s appearance. Stella Bruzzi comments in a review of the film:

 

Because nothing much else is going on here, we are lured into becoming obsessively attentive to details, such as Jackie’s garish company badge, the cheap blue of her jacket contrasting with the rich browns of her hair and skin, the elegant curve in her nose and her ambiguous eyes, both vulnerable and self-contained (39).

 

As Bruzzi argues, Jackie’s blue airline uniform – and I would also add – the dark purple tiling of the back wall and the yellow credit titles (Figure 3.1) – contrast with Jackie’s physical features, or what Gilman referred to in his description of the selective process of constructing the Other as “anatomical signs of difference” (qtd. in Young 31). These colour contrasts draw attention to the very fact Jackie is black. Taken together, the continuous static medium profile shot, the use of non-diegetic music, the duration of the shot and the colour contrasting combine as cinematic syntax that, however well-intentioned, emphasise Jackie’s race as different, as Other. Awareness of Jackie as the racial Other is exacerbated by the reference to The Graduate. I disagree with Jim Smith’s assessment of Tarantino’s intertextuality as “spurious”; instead, I would argue in this instance, it is a deliberate and skilful positioning of Jackie’s race and gender as second to the original white male, Braddock (6). Yet, in identifying Tarantino’s cinematic syntax and intertextual reference here, I am not suggesting it offers a negative visualisation of African American femininity – on the contrary, the contemporary U.S. film industry rarely produces black women character films with the same sincerity and admiration as Tarantino does for Grier here. Even so, it is striking Tarantino makes these connections continually throughout the film.

The remaining analysis of Jackie Brown proceeds in two stages: a cinematographic analysis evidencing Tarantino’s admiration for Grier and a further scene exposing Tarantino’s way of cementing the connection to her earlier career and persona in the Blaxploitation era. Just after the credit sequence, Jackie is seen walking through the airport. As Figure 3.3 below illustrates, Tarantino affords a slight low angle in this shot. In accentuating Grier/Jackie’s figure, he values this type of femininity, as tall, womanly and African American. Given the “‘feminine’ cultural hierarchy” where the “standards of beauty are shaped by the dominant [white] group”, then, this shot, as does the rest of the film, stands as noticeably progressive against the racial and cultural meanings associated with femininity, beauty and desirability (Manatu 90). Moreover, the slight angle marks Tarantino’s personal recognition of Grier’s iconic status; the slight angle elevates Grier as the “queen of Blaxploitation” (Guerrero 1993, 93). Fred Botting and Scott Wilson neatly summarise this scene as:

 

True romance, the love affair of lens and image […] The director’s enamouration with this rediscovered icon of the seventies is translated into the unflinching absorption of cinematic homage, a fantasy as full as the figure who fills the screen (165). 

The subtle low angle in this shot clearly demonstrates Tarantino’s personal fascination with Grier endorsing the comments above. Tarantino’s frequent showcasing of Grier’s cultural verisimilitude is highlighted when Ordell (Samuel L. Jackson) visits Jackie the night she is released from jail. This scene is loaded with obvious racial signifiers which exploit this cultural verisimilitude. The unashamed use of racial epithets in Tarantino’s rhythmic, ironic dialogue evidences this. The dialogue takes a central role as the lights are switched off for most of the scene and Jackie is heard shouting to Ordell in the darkness:  “Get your hands off from my neck, nigger” and, “I’m gonna unload both of these motherfuckers if you don’t do what I tell you to do, do you understand what I am sayin’?” Both the type of language and Grier’s delivery of these lines with a slow, deep timbre in her voice points to the same strength as seen in Foxy Brown where she is described in the trailer as the “baddest One-Chick-Squad that ever hit town!”

As the scene progresses, the lights turn back on and Jackie takes control as she points the gun at Ordell. Jackie’s street-wise attitude and strong demeanour, (Figures 3.4 and 3.5), undoubtedly harks back to Grier’s persona in the Blaxploitation era. Tarantino even goes as far to say that Jackie is “Coffy, 20 years later, is Foxy Brown 20 years later”, a comment which signals he was knowingly presenting Jackie in this way (qtd. in Miklitsch 304). For all the aesthetic sophistication and nuances of Jackie Brown, Tarantino explicitly draws attention to Grier’s physicality, right from the opening sequence, and capitalises on her cultural verisimilitude which ultimately casts Jackie Brown as the racial Other. In so doing, the characterisation of Jackie is built on obvious racial signifiers, as apparent in the film’s auditory canvas, aforementioned street-wise attitude and dialogue with Ordell.

 

Bibliography

Barnes, Alan & Heam, Marcus. Tarantino, A to Zed: The Films of Quentin Tarantino. London: Batsford, 1996. Print.

 

Bauer, Erik. “The Mouth and the Method”, Sight and Sound, 3,1. (March 1998): 7-9. Print.  

 

Botting, Fred & Wilson, Scott. The Tarantinian Ethics. London: Sage Publications Ltd., 2001. Print.

 

Bruzzi, Stella. “Review: Jackie Brown”, Sight and Sound, 8.4. (April 1998):  39-40. Print.  

 

Guerrero, Ed. Framing Blackness. Temple University Press: Philadelphia, 1993. Print.

 

Miklitsch, Robert. “Audiophilia: audiovisual pleasure/narrative cinema in Jackie Brown”, Screen 45, 4. (Winter 2004): 288 – 304. Print.

 

Smith, Jim. Tarantino. London: Virgin Books, 2005. Print.

 

Young, Lola. Fear of the dark: ‘race’, gender and sexuality in the cinema. London: Routledge, 1996. Print.

Fighting violence with violence: Tarantino defends Django Unchained (2012)

Ending to “Beau Travail” (d. Claire Denis, 1999)

Listening Beyond the “Sound of Silence” in The Graduate (d. Mike Nichols, 1967)

The very fact The Graduate has an iconic soundtrack has arguably discouraged examinations of the film’s overall use of sound. Perhaps it is considered too obvious to examine the use of sound in a film which bestows Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sound of Silence’ (1966) with such significance to the film’s protagonist, Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman), by functioning as an interior monologue for his feelings of “generational disaffection”, disillusionment and isolation. However, The Graduate has not been excluded from film sound criticism altogether. Often coupled with Easy Rider (d. Dennis Hopper, 1969), both are recognised for their similar integration of successful popular music into their soundtracks which spoke directly to the emerging nonconformist American youth of the late 1960s. It is irrefutable the soundtrack alone confirms The Graduate as an auditory masterpiece. However, the intricacies of soundtrack manipulation and the use of other sound devices have yet to be explored in depth.

Dialogue Hook

Although not an established sound technique, I understand the dialogue hook as a repeated phrase of dialogue frames a cut.

Its most notable use in The Graduate subtly connects a conversation between Benjamin and his mother, Mrs. Braddock (Elizabeth Wilson), and Benjamin’s forced conversation with Mrs. Robinson. Whilst shaving, Mrs. Braddock interrogates Benjamin as to where he goes out at night and leaves after she wants answers not dishonesty. Benjamin shouts “Wait! Wait a minute!” in a high-pitched voice as she leaves the screen space. The scene cuts to a dark room barely lit through two half-open window blinds. Whereas the image usually takes precedence in maintaining and creating spatial unity in the diegesis, it is the voice of Benjamin who says “Will you wait a minute please?” which clarifies the dark space as the hotel room where he and Mrs. Robinson frequently meet for their sexual affair. It is the sound, specifically Benjamin’s voice, rather than the image which identifies spatial continuity.

The narrative effects of the repeated words of “wait a minute” connect the two scenes with succinctness that surpasses the capabilities of the visual image and editing alone. Not only does the repeated dialogue liken Benjamin’s behaviour with this mother to his behaviour with Mrs. Robinson, but it reveals his infantile masculinity. Both the former high-pitched yell to Mrs. Braddock and the latter sombre plea to Mrs. Robinson exacerbate the generational gap between Benjamin and the two women and position him as powerless to manage these relationships. This reading of infantile masculinity is supported by several moments where Benjamin’s nervousness and inadequacy result in him whimpering like a child. The dialogue hook, then, works to unveil character behaviour and psychology in a way that can only be achieved through audible signifiers.

Sound Bridging

Like the dialogue hook, sound bridging is understood in film criticism to be transitional device. It can be defined in two ways:

•             When the sound from the next scene begins while the images of the last scene are still on the screen

•             When the sound lingers briefly while images of the next scene ensue. 

A prime example of the first definition of the sound bridge takes place in The Graduate when Benjamin is leaving the Robinson’s household for the first time. A static long shot captures Benjamin walking to his car, away from Mr. and Mrs. Robinson (Murray Hamilton) who are in soft focus and framed by the front door archway. Here Mr. Braddock (William Daniels) is heard in a voiceover saying “Ladies and gentlemen – your attention, please – for this afternoon’s feature attraction.” The scene cuts to a medium shot of Mr. Braddock who continues to introduce Benjamin in his birthday suit. The sound bridge here reinforces Benjamin’s subjection; it is as if he is a puppet being manipulated by all sides and is powerless to the contrasting desires of Mr. Robinson (who wants Benjamin to “sow a few wild oats” and take Elaine out) and Mrs. Robinson (who wants to start a sexual affair with him) as well as being at the mercy of his parents’ wishes on his birthday. The very fact the sound bridge is an audible transition arguably reflects the inexorability of Benjamin’s situation; unable to escape the external pressures of familial and social expectation (and thus the sound representing it). Both the dialogue hook and the sound bridge are in keeping with the film’s overall emphases of generational estrangement and youthful dissatisfaction.

Suspense through Sound in the Final Sequence

The ending of The Graduate has been subject to innumerable critical examinations which often neglect the actions before Benjamin and Elaine run off together on the public bus. There are several notable uses of sound from when Benjamin races to find Elaine after visiting a friend of the rival groom (94.05mins) to the credit sequence (101mins). First, the only song composed solely for the film by Paul Simon, “Mrs Robinson”, is manipulated during Benjamin’s race against time, resulting in distilled sounds of the slap guitar. These sounds are integral to the construction of rhythm and it is this rhythm alone which maintains dramatic effect. The original tempo of “Mrs. Robinson” here is manipulated in synchronisation to the diegetic action; being both accelerated when Benjamin is driving frantically to Santa Barbara and slowed down when his car runs out of petrol. This audible mirroring of the visual action gives pace to an otherwise lengthy chase sequence but it is its relationship to the image which creates its dramatic significance.

As the rhythm fades with the deceleration of car, Benjamin jumps out and runs the rest of the way to the church. The contrast between the preceding manipulated rhythm of “Mrs Robinson” and the white noises of only the wind and passing cars while Benjamin is running creates unbearable suspense. Aligning ourselves with Benjamin with an awareness that this is his last hope to win back Elaine, the lack of nondiegetic sound arguably serves as an audible imitation of the audience ‘holding their breath’ in apprehension. As Benjamin turns the corner and the church becomes visible, five singular guitar strums in ascending scale are heard while he runs up the stairs, into the church and sees the ceremony already over. These five strums are indicative of the film’s climax. Just after Benjamin says “Oh Jesus, God… No”, the sound of the organ precedes and we see Elaine at the altar with her new husband. Benjamin then cries out repeatedly to Elaine in a defeated, sonorous timbre.

The final images of the film capture Benjamin and Elaine on the bus that is slowly driving away from their preordained, conservative lives. Simultaneous to their facial expressions turning from happiness to anxiousness, “The Sound of Silence” starts to play, a song which speaks Benjamin’s feelings of dissatisfaction, disillusionment and isolation. I believe it is only through sound and its powers of suggestion, that The Graduate closes on an anxious, confused note.  

It is clear The Graduate is not only homage to New Hollywood’s original yet guarded aesthetic mode, its auditory canvas is intricate and its effects are subtle. From analysing the dialogue hook and the sound bridge respectively, similarities were easily drawn in their abilities to reveal character psychology that surpass the capabilities of the image or editing alone. Finally, an analysis of the film’s ending was inclusive of the diverse devices utilised in creating suspense, dramatic effect and climatic effect.

A beautiful photograph I found on Pinterest.

Photographer: Unknown.
Location: Unknown.

Loneliness and Landscapes in Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s films

Not yet part of the European Union, largely Islamic yet a secular state, Turkey is a political and cultural anomaly in the Middle East; yielding to the lifestyles and freedoms of Westernised modernity while contending with fraught cultural differences between many ethnic minorities. New Turkish Cinema of the late 1990s and 2000s is marked by these struggles of cultural uncertainty and a yearning to belong.

It is here that university taught engineer, once photographer and now filmmaker Nuri Bilge Ceylan (Ceylan) needs to be situated; as a pioneering filmmaker dedicated to representing these socio-cultural issues with precision and lyricism.  Having adopted a small-scale mode of production with involvement in writing, filming, co-editing, producing and financing, Ceylan’s ‘hands-on’ approach points to the same devotion, total immersion and control as seen in auteurs such as Orson Welles and John Cassavetes.

Having made just six features and one short: Ceylan stands as a true cinema auteur. With engineering precision and experience in photography, Ceylan’s signature can not be equated to authorial penmanship, as proffered by Astruc’s camera-stylo in 1948. Rather, his authorial mark stems from his painterly and poetic composition of landscapes, mainly shot in deep focus with minimal camera movement.

Together, these stylistic choices create an unsettling cinematic stillness which can be seen in the opening long takes in his first four feature films. Whether it is the crisp image of children playing in the snow in Kasaba (1997) (reminiscent of the infamous deep focus shot of young Charles in Citizen Kane (d. Welles, 1941)), or the outside world reflected back onto disappointed Saffet (Emin Toprak) in Clouds of May (1999), or the snow-white provincial town about to be left behind by Yusuf (Emin Toprak) in Uzak (2002), or the prolonged conventional shot/reverse shot of troubled, restless Bahar (Ebru Ceylan) in Climates (2006) (all Figure 1), it is clear Ceylan’s technical approach is one of discretion and subtlety.

The quiet modesty in which he opens his films is quintessentially auteurist; as if he is sharing these images with the audience rather than announcing them ostentatiously. Where other filmmakers would readjust the camera when Yusuf briefly goes out of shot in Uzak, or intercut and reveal what is troubling Bahar in Climates, Ceylan holds back, letting things unfold. Ceylan’s refusal to break the stillness these images create mark him as an auteur with technical finesse and grace.

Ceylan is a contemporary auteur with aesthetical grace comparable to Tarkovsky and Antonioni, as well as sharing an aural taste, a controlling desire and an artisanal mode of filmmaking with Cassavetes. The content of Ceylan’s cinema is undeniably informed by his Turkish heritage and life experience, which through an intricate weaving of memory and poignant fiction verifies his abilities as an auteur to communicate subject matter that resonates on both a localised (ie. nationally specific) and a universal level.

Although comparable to the cinema’s greats in some areas, as a whole, it is irrefutable that Ceylan is an auteur like no other. Kasaba, Clouds of May, Uzak and Climates are films which interrelate with one another significantly yet are no less affective without the context of Ceylan’s body of work. Ceylan is establishing himself a cinematic reputation that calls for critical attention and a deep appreciation. His more recent films, Three Monkeys (2008) and Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011) are demonstrative of Ceylan’s stylistic and thematic mastery evolving into new genres and narratives; further exploration here would be fascinating. Years from now, I hope Ceylan’s first four features will be remembered as artistic masterpieces and that he will be remembered amongst the great, most senior auteurs of the cinema.

Filmography:

• Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011)

• Three Monkeys (2008)

• Climates (2006)

• Distant (2002)

• Clouds of May (1999)

• Kasaba (1997)

• Koza (1995) (short)

Here is Ceylan’s personal photography site; these stills are fantastic!

http://www.nuribilgeceylan.com/photography/turkeycinemascope1.php?sid=1

Welcome…

Hello,

This blog is dedicated to some of the cinematic discoveries I uncovered whilst studying at Edinburgh. Using Tarantino’s phrase, these writings are “sub-textual film criticism”, to clarify my take and my analysis of certain films and directors.

Thanks,

Rachael